


The American Guest

by embroiderama



Category: Downton Abbey, White Collar
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Con Artists, Crossover, M/M, Servants, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Neal Caffrey, an American with a letter introducing himself as Lady Grantham's distant cousin, arrives at Downton Abbey. Thomas thinks he's a man worth watching, in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The American Guest

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://ysbail.livejournal.com/profile)[**ysbail**](http://ysbail.livejournal.com/) and [](http://ariadnes-string.livejournal.com/profile)[**ariadnes_string**](http://ariadnes-string.livejournal.com/) for the britpicking and betaing. This is my first time writing in a fandom that's not North American, so I hope I didn't mangle it too badly. This is set shortly before series one of DA and in an AU version of pre-series WC.

Nobody at Downton liked surprise guests showing up in the middle of the afternoon, not the staff who had to stop their usual routines to prepare a room and change dinner plans as need be and not the family. Lord and Lady Grantham had to be stirred from their solitary pursuits, and the young ladies were made to hastily choose a dress that was just perfect instead of good enough. This guest was a single young gentleman, if Americans could be called such, some relative of Lady Grantham's visiting with a letter of introduction from his mother, the lady's cousin.

His manner of dress was odd, many seasons out of fashion, but the way his clothing fit him, the manner in which he doffed his positively Victorian hat, made it look like a choice of style, a quirk of character, rather than a lack of funds for a new wardrobe. Besides, Mr. Caffrey, as he called himself, would've been in short trousers when those styles were the thing, if New York fashion was anything like London's. Thomas liked the look of him quite well, and he couldn't help noticing that the gentleman's gaze did not linger long on the ladies, despite the display of their _finest_ assets. His eyes were sharp, blue as a wolf's, taking in every detail of the house as he entered.

Thomas tried not to appear _too_ eager to serve as the gentleman's valet during his stay, wishing to avoid one of Carson's pointed glares, but he didn't miss O'Brien's knowing look as he followed Mr. Caffrey up to his room. Dinner was coming soon enough, and they didn't have over much time to get Mr. Caffrey freshened up and dressed for dining.

"I'll just get you unpacked if you like, Mr. Caffrey." The room had the air of being hastily dusted and aired, but the housemaids had managed to get a washbasin and jug of water, as well as some towels set up on the washstand.

"That would be excellent, thank you." The gentleman flashed Thomas a grin and set about unbuttoning his jacket and waistcoat. Thomas turned away, opening Mr. Caffrey's trunk and hanging up his suits in the wardrobe, each of them of very fine quality but in that odd outmoded style he seemed to prefer. Thomas emptied the trunk and turned to the valise when he felt a touch on his back. "Leave that please."

Thomas opened his mouth to argue that it was his job to unpack for the gentleman, but the certainty in Mr. Caffrey's eyes stopped him. "Very well, sir."

Caffrey was half undressed now, down to his undergarments. Through the thin layer of linen, Thomas could see that he was shaped very nicely indeed, not built as thickly as so many of the gentlemen. Mr. Caffrey was all fine bones laid over with wiry muscle, like some of the boxers Thomas had seen once in Manchester. He had something of their ready stance as well, and Thomas had to stop himself before he let his thoughts stray too deeply into his memories of that day, the sight of sweat on naked skin, the smell--

"Thomas?"

Thomas shook himself from his erotic woolgathering and put on a crisp smile. "Yes, sir? I'm sorry, sir."

"No need to apologize. I was just thinking I'd like to freshen up before dinner. Wouldn't want to reflect poorly on my branch of the family, or my countrymen, would I?"

"Of course, sir."

Thomas checked the blade to make sure it was clean and freshly stropped and then worked up a lather with the bristle brush and soap. He spread the thick cream onto Mr. Caffrey's face and then put one hand under his sharp, square jaw to get the best angle. Thomas had learned how to shave another man's face before he'd been old enough to grow a full beard of his own, and it never got old--the beat of a man's pulse against his palm, the keenness of the blade in his hand. He caught a flash of fear in Mr. Caffrey's eyes, and wasn't that odd?

Most of these gentlemen were so accustomed to servants caring for them that they could scarcely shave themselves without opening a vein, and here Mr. Caffrey tensed at the razor's approach. Well, Thomas reasoned, perhaps the custom was different in America. Not that any of their previous American visitors had been any less helpless than the Crawleys, coming from such _fine_ families as they did.

Nevertheless, Mr. Caffrey did not flinch, but held himself steady as Thomas touched the razor to his cheek and began to scrape away the fine layer of dark stubble. As whatever dire catastrophe Mr. Caffrey must have been anticipating failed to occur, he began to relax, his chin weighing more heavily against Thomas's steadying hand. His body swayed closer as well, his hips pushing slightly against Thomas's. It was a struggle to hold the blade steady, but soon enough Thomas was done.

Mr. Caffrey took a half-step back and ran a hand over his now-smooth chin. "Excellent work, Thomas."

"Thank you, sir." Thomas moved to the wardrobe and pulled out the black dinner jacket. "You'll be wearing this one, sir?"

"Yes, of course."

Thomas made sure that Mr. Caffrey was suitably attired for dinner then excused himself, and only once he was into the back stairway did he give in to the mad rush again.

Dinner was to be served in moments, and Thomas had to prepare to serve at the table. As he pulled on his gloves he thought, not for the first time, of how much he wanted to get away from this petty ladling of soup and topping-up of glasses. He should be made a proper valet soon, and one day he'd see himself butler of Downton or some other grand estate if the Crawleys failed to see his value.

In the meantime, Thomas kept his eyes open. As he served dinner, he watched Mr. Caffrey. The gentleman talked to the young ladies, engaging them in conversation that they seemed to find flattering, but his eyes were not on them. Instead, he was taking in the whole room and its accoutrements. Mr. Caffrey's manners were passable, but again his discomfort with being served at the table was clear to Thomas no matter how much he tried to hide it.

The Crawleys noticed nothing. To them he was a minor curiosity, being an American and all, and an object at which the ladies could lob their flirtations and Lord Grantham his well-worn witticisms. Thomas kept a sharp eye out, and while serving drinks he noticed Mr. Caffrey slip out of the room, some excuse or other whispered in Lady Grantham's ear.

As swiftly as he could get away without drawing undue notice, Thomas set off to follow him, hoping to solve the mystery of what the American was seeking at Downton Abbey. If it were any other gentleman, Thomas might've guessed he was headed for the female servants' quarters, which would scarcely be Thomas's business unless there were some advantage to be had in the knowledge. Instead, Thomas caught sight of the American mounting the stairs to the hallway where the family's bedrooms lay. All of the family were presently socializing below, so clearly Mr. Caffrey was seeking something other than company.

Thomas crept up the stairs behind him and rounded upon him where he stood next to the painting outside Lady Grantham's chamber. "Can I help you, sir?"

Mr. Caffrey only briefly betrayed his surprise, swiftly covering it with a smile. "I was hoping you would follow me, Thomas."

"Were you now?"

Mr. Caffrey stepped in closer, backing Thomas up against the door of the linen closet. "Very much so," he said, voice heavy with meaning. He reached out and unbuttoned Thomas's waistcoat then slipped his hand underneath Thomas's shirts to touch his stomach, around the side to his ribs. Thomas closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the rush of a man's touch on his skin after so very long with nothing but stolen moments of privacy and the touch of his own hand.

Thomas reached behind himself with a trembling hand and opened the closet door, leading the gentleman into the small space piled high with towels, blankets and bed linens all crisp and clean, smelling of bleach and soap powder. As the door swung shut behind them, blocking out all but the smallest bit of light, Thomas reached for the fastening to his own trousers, but Mr. Caffrey pushed his hands aside and opened Thomas's trousers himself.

Thomas sank down on a firm pile of folded sheets as he felt the phantom touch of warm breath on his cock, followed by the heat and pressure of a mouth, lips, dear God, hands that were not his own. He struggled to speak, to work the situation to his advantage beyond the momentary pleasure, but this man was more skilled, more focused on Thomas's pleasure than anybody else with whom Thomas had ever shared such moments.

Mr. Caffrey wrapped one arm around the small of Thomas's back and swallowed him deeper into the heat of his throat. In the darkness, Thomas imagined that throat, the long pale column so vulnerable under his hands as when Thomas had shaved him just hours earlier. There was a flash of pain then, fingers pinching cruelly on his right nipple, and that was his undoing. He gripped the back of the American's hair as the pleasure overflowed and he released into the soft, sucking mouth surrounding him.

Thomas was deaf to anything other than his own helplessly panting breaths, blind beyond the darkness of the room, and when he came back to himself he found himself alone. By the time he could calm himself and set his clothing to rights, Mr. Caffrey was absent from the hallway and all Thomas could do was return to the first floor and attempt to avoid the sharp eye of Mr. Carson.

When all of the evening's duties were finally complete, Thomas lay in his bed across from William and looked forward to dressing Mr. Caffrey again the next morning, planning what he might say to the gentleman when he was in proper possession of his faculties. He had only just fallen asleep when the whole house was roused by a heavy knocking at the front door. He and William dressed in a mad rush, pulling on their uniforms as best they could before hurrying down to meet Mr. Carson as he opened the door, Lord Grantham standing nearby in his dressing gown.

Somehow, Thomas was not entirely surprised to find that the visitor was another American. A tall man with a serviceably handsome face and a terribly plain suit under his heavy coat, Mr. Burke was a detective of some kind and, of course, seeking words with Mr. Caffrey. He was accompanied by a beautiful dark-skinned woman who appeared to be his assistant. Thomas was sent up to retrieve their guest, but he found the bedroom unoccupied, the wardrobe emptied of the American's clothing. When Thomas returned with the news of Mr. Caffrey's unexpected departure, Detective Burke swore and refused Lord Grantham's offer of hospitality for the remainder of the night, instead taking leave with his assistant who fixed her eye upon Thomas for a long moment before leaving with the detective.

Two days later, when it was discovered that one of Lady Grantham's finest necklaces had gone missing, it was a foregone conclusion that the man who had purported to be her cousin had stolen it before fleeing in advance of the law. Thomas never did know what business Mr. Caffrey had sought inside Downton Abbey, but the necklace, secreted under a false bottom in Thomas's footlocker, was certainly no part of it.


End file.
